The secret of the rose

Part 1 Chapter 3

I received instructions from the social services that I had to pack my bags to go live with my grandmother after my parent's burial. The small village of Sandy Creek, where my future home will be, is located a few miles from the town of Wilmington, North Carolina.

Imposed by my grandmother, I can take with me, only the bare necessities and all must be able to be transported in a single suitcase. Painfully, I leave a lot of my clothes, my books and all the accessories that a teenager of my age cannot do without. All personal items that I give up will be placed safely at Mr. and Mrs. Smith's. At least, this promise brings me some comfort, but I do not know if I will have the opportunity to see them again someday.

I resign myself to leave all my precious memories in the big villa and carry only one family photo taken during our last trip to Florida. It is with great sadness that I abandon this safe place that has been filled with joy, laughter, and love. I knew real happiness. The wealth of growing where the affection and respect of the people we love was a priority. I close the door, my heart torn, and head to my new home with a small suitcase as my only luggage.

The journey to the city of Sandy Creek is painful. The landscape scrolling through the window of the Smith car offers a sad show. There are only trees as far as the eye can see and the road is dotted with holes in places. Occasionally, through the woods, appears small houses that need to be renovated. This city that can beconsidered a village has only 260 residents. I already miss the city of Wilmington with its jovial citizens and thriving businesses that brighten the streets.

The further I get from the city I love, the more my anxiety increases. My grandmother is a constant moody woman and we rarely see her smile. She became a widow very soon after the birth of my father and never went on with her life. Since then, she has dedicated her days to her church. Now that she is old, she benefits from the services of her community as if it were due. Without thanks, she dismisses those who annoy her. She is not very popular with people in the neighborhood. Many names her "the witch". I fear her. I would have preferred to be sent to a convent rather than live with this ungrateful woman.

We finally arrive at my grandparent's house. I feel like a convict walking the death row for the last time when Mr. Smith's car enters the driveway to my grandmother's residence. The house is small compared to the large villa I just left. It looks like a cottage and needs a lot of renovations. The painting is faded, and some shutters hang from their hinges. The roof lacks coating in places and gutters are dented. These have not been cleaned for some time. This house must have been charming at the time when it was in better condition.

When the car arrived at the end of the driveway to my new shelter, all my limbs tremble. With the car turned off, Mr. Smith comes out and opens the door for me to get out. His stare is loaded with solicitude. I look down because I do not want to cry again. He takes my suitcase out of the trunk and escorts me to the door where my grandmother is waiting behind the mosquito net. Mr. and Mrs. Smith hug me and say goodbye. I do not know if I will see this wonderful couple again someday. I watch them leave until they reach the street and make their way back home. My heart is squirming with pain. I do not know what to expect and if I will survive this misfortune.

Without a word of welcome or a smile, my grandmother opens the mosquito net and makes me enter. She bypasses me and summons me to follow her. The stairs leading to the second-floor creak at each step. My grandmother takes a long time to climb the stairs, one by one, and complains that her rheumatism makes her suffer. She shows me my future room at the end of the hallway on the second floor. Another room that I suppose is my grandmother's and a bathroom share the hallway. It is lacking photos or frames that could have embellished a little this depressing place.

The room is medium size. A single bed sits in the center; a bedside table on the left and a desk complete the decor. A large closet serves as a wardrobe to store the modest clothes that my suitcase contains. No lampshade covers the bulb in the middle of the ceiling. Sun-yellowed curtains barely cover the small window overlooking the backyard. The floor of shabby wooden boards creaks with every step I take. The walls are empty of any decoration. I have never seen such a dull room. It makes me think of a horror movie scene.

At the end of the bed are folded carefully a white sheet and a pale green quilt that has seen better days. A feather pillow covered with a pristine white cover is on top. I already miss my tons of decorative cushions that would have sworn in this decor without artifice. I realize by looking at these accessories, folded this way, that I will have to make my bed myself. I have a moment of anxiety. This task has alwaysbeen accomplished by Mrs. White at my old house. All the housework wasdone by her. I never made my bed,the dishes, took out the trash or even a broom. We had employees to do everything. And if I did not do it the right way, would I be reprimanded? What will be my punishment? Had I not already been punished enough?

Standing next to me, my grandmother punctuates my arrival in her house with very strict recommendations.

- This will be your room. I don't want to see anything hanging on the walls that will remain white. You'll have to keep it impeccably clean. I will not tolerate any drag on the floor. This house is not a pigsty. Did I make myself clear young girl?

-Yes grandmother, I said almost inaudibly.

My grandmother continues to state the rules of conduct. I listen carefully to avoid being severely punished.

-The curfew, lights out, will be at sunset. All your tasks must be completed before.

Her tone is so severe that she scares me. With her small size and large body, she looks like the actress who is the exorcist in the movie Poltergeist. A discreet smile appears on my face at the sight of this image, but I pull myself together before my grandmother can notice it. She is not very expressive; her face is still tense and much wrinkled. I wonder if she was of a jovial nature at the time when she was my age. I try to go back in my memories to find an image of her laughing, but nothing comes to me.

Having lived in an understanding and respectful environment, I find all these rules, nonsense and ridiculous. However, I know that I will have to conform with them if I am to stay in the good graces of the one who took me in. Not being of a rebellious nature, I nod to all the rules that seem to be a necessity for my grandmother. I am at the age where we learn from our mistakes so how will I know how to live my life if I barely have the right to breathe. I realize to my consternation that my years living under her roof will not be filled with joy.

After completing her warnings, she turns on her heels and leaves me alone in my future room. I put my suitcase on my bed and start hanging the few clothes that I managed to bring with me. This task finished, which took me only a few minutes, I try to make my bed. I do not even know if I am doing it the right way, but I am proud of the result. After, I go downstairs to find my landlady sitting in her rocking chair, where she will be from now on to watch and criticize my every move.

I learn by the Smiths, when they call to have some news, that the property of my family was liquidated in a short time, the house, the furniture and all my memories. The money that came out of the sales was given to my grandmother. She recovered to the last penny, under the pretext that she would have to provide for the pricey needs of a teenager. She then told me that this would cover the costs until I turned 18, the age when I will have to leave my new home to live on my own. My grandmother makes me understand that her accommodation is not a voluntary choice, but an obligation. An overload she was forced to accept when reading her son's will. I am her one and only descendant, but by her attitude, my grandmother makes me feel that I am not welcome.

And  this is only the beginning of my ordeal. These next four years will not be easy. I, who knew happiness, now it will be my hell. I must convince myself that it is only until my 18 birthdays. Then I will be free. But what freedom? I do not have anything. How am I going to manage it? I have four years to think about it. Hope these years pass quickly.